


Anything for…

by A Magiluna Stormwriter (ariestess)



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-26
Updated: 2006-07-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 06:56:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariestess/pseuds/A%20Magiluna%20Stormwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kara never really quite understood why she's always sent on these missions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything for…

**Author's Note:**

  * For [no_absolutes](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=no_absolutes).



> Date: 25 July 2006  
> Word Count: 2031  
> Summary: Kara never really quite understood why she's always sent on these missions.  
> Warnings: AU, future!fic, set 6 months past the Season 2 finale  
> Website: ShatterStorm Productions - Frisked & Conquered  
> Link to: <http://f-n-c.shatterstorm.net/>  
> Archive: ShatterStorm Productions only…all others ask for permission & we'll see…
> 
> Author's Disclaimer: "Battlestar Galactica," the characters, and situations depicted are the property of Ron Moore, David Eick, SciFi, R&D TV, Sky TV, and USA Cable Entertainment LLC. This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes. Previously unrecognized characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. This site is in no way affiliated with "Battlestar Galactica," SciFi, or any representatives of the actors whose characters are involved.
> 
> Author's Notes: This was written for [](http://no-absolutes.livejournal.com/profile)[**no_absolutes**](http://no-absolutes.livejournal.com/) , for the ["Get Laura Laid" ficathon](http://jennyo.livejournal.com/623245.html), brought to you by [](http://jennyo.livejournal.com/profile)[**jennyo**](http://jennyo.livejournal.com/) & [](http://tellitslant.livejournal.com/profile)[**tellitslant**](http://tellitslant.livejournal.com/). It was quite a kick to work on this one, considering I wasn't really sure  what I'd wanted to write. And I feel bad that I didn't get to work in the whole idea of Roslin turning wholeheartedly into becoming a spiritual leader, but that doesn't exactly lend itself to getting her laid, now does it? *g* Maybe that'll get written one of these days…
> 
> Dedication: My muses, who always pull through in the end…
> 
> Beta: Thanks to [](http://mrswoman.livejournal.com/profile)[**mrswoman**](http://mrswoman.livejournal.com/) and [](http://darkhawkhealer.livejournal.com/profile)[**darkhawkhealer**](http://darkhawkhealer.livejournal.com/) for another set of eyes to look this over…

  


You're never really quite sure why it's always you on these missions.

Of course, you have your theories. You're the best pilot in the entire frakking fleet. If you could, you'd do away with all the frakking rules for the pilots. But only for yourself. Those other moron pilots and nuggets don't have the skills and the intuition like you do. They've still got a lot to learn. Even Apollo. He can be CAG all he wants. He still can't out fly you.

You have no family. Your allegiances are to the old man…and to her. Yeah, that makes them both some weird parental substitutes, but you're okay with that. Hell, the old man was nearly your father-in-law, so… Twice, in fact. Thank the gods that second time never happened. You've got enough shit frakking up in your life.

But you'd do anything for her, wouldn't you? Without hesitation. And if you say anything else, you know you're a frakking liar. She just has this presence that you can't resist. It's like the alcohol, if you're honest with yourself. She's an addiction that you can't give up, even if you wanted to. And you don't want to give her up. You'd sooner find out you're a toaster.

This unswerving dedication and devotion to her is what got you stuck on this damned mission in the first place. You remember all too well how much she needed the chamalla before Helo's unborn kid saved her from the cancer. And you're not so stupid as to have forgotten the visionary side effects of that particular substance. All of the information about the prophecy pointed to her as the one to lead you all to Earth. And yet, after she was cured, she stopped the chamalla and pretty much stopped everything else she did before.

You sometimes wonder in the year and a half since that fateful day why she's done so much to change her image to the rest of the fleet. Rigging the election was bad enough. And everyone in the frakking fleet has known her viewpoint on settling on New Caprica. And yet, instead of doing anything about it, she's simply turned into a sweet, unassuming schoolmarm. Even settled down with that mousy little assistant teacher of hers, Isis' mom.

Well, that's not entirely true. She has worked with you and several others in the resistance. But she's so damned adamant that she not be linked to it at all. She uses the children as her reason. You've told her on more than one occasion that it's an excuse. Or rather, you've wanted to tell her. Every time you gather up the courage to tell her, she fixes you with that look you can't resist.

Like when she asked you to take on this damned mission of hers. You met in the shadowy quiet of the school tent, huddling close together for warmth and privacy. Her voice took on that furtive, conspiratorial tone that plugs directly into your crotch. She told you how one of the kids found some plants that seemed vaguely familiar. That Doc Cottle did some testing and found they were somehow similar to the chamalla she once took, but that he wouldn't condone their use without extensive testing. You remember the fervor in her eyes as she told you she didn't want to wait on his frakking testing. If she was to lead the fleet to Earth, she needed to have her prophetic visions again.

And so, here you are, trudging back to civilization with a pack frakking stuffed full of the plants. It's been four of the most hellacious days of your entire life, and that's saying a lot. You're filthy, and smell as if you've been rolling around in the putrefying remains of a Cylon raider. You're scratched and bruised all over, and your long hair is so matted with mud and blood, you're considering hacking it all off instead of trying to clean it up. But you've gotten the damned plants she wants. Now you hope it'll all be worth it.

You briefly entertain the thought of a long, hot shower and a change of clothes, but decide that she should actually see the hell you've put yourself through for her…again. And hopefully this time, you can actually tell her what you think of her and all of her secrecy and attempts at normalcy. But you know better…

Cautiously you knock on the framework marking off the doorway of her tent. It's late enough that she shouldn't be in the school tent, but you'll check there next. After the faintest hint of shuffling, the flap is pulled back to reveal a sleepily disheveled Laura Roslin. She blinks in surprise, and you can see the moment she recognizes it's you standing before her. You fight back the grin at getting the upper hand, even for just a short few seconds. Her eyes dart past you, and you can't help but turn slightly to verify you weren't followed.

Grabbing your arm, she pulls you into the tent, letting the flap fall heavily back into place. The sounds and smells of the outside are cut off, replaced by the immediacy of her life within this ramshackle home of hers. You can easily detect the presence of young Isis, as well as the earthy scent of her mother, Maya. But what overwhelms your senses is the heady cloud of her. It surrounds you like a fog-laden blanket, comforting and arousing by turns.

You feel her eyes on you, traveling from hair to boots and back up again. You know instinctively that nothing escapes her intense gaze. She reaches hesitantly for the backpack, and you willingly give it up. Her face lights up like yours used to at Solstice as she opens it, fingers reverently stroking the dozens, if not hundreds of deceptively delicate stalks you painstakingly harvested. And as quickly as she began stroking the stalks, she's closing up the backpack and setting it aside to turn her gaze back to you.

"You look like hell, Kara Thrace," she says in a low voice, teasing and commanding at the same time. All you can do is nod, your heart pounding in your throat. As if sensing your discomfort, she smiles that "mom" smile: the one she reserves for Isis and the children; the one she uses when you've returned from one of her harebrained secret missions; the one that makes you feel like the center of the frakking universe. And that resolve you swore you'd use to tell her how you feel about her missions? Yep, it's a quivering puddle of goo at her feet.

Without thought, you let her guide you further into the tent, to the private bathroom she's been allotted. Swallowing thickly, you watch her start the water running in the tub. Despite the barrenness of this planet, there is a heavy rainy season that is harvested to help support the natural water resources. Letting the water run, she turns to face you with a critical eye before rummaging for a bottle and pouring its contents under the tap.

And then she's removing your clothes, taking her time getting rid of each filthy layer, piece by piece. You feel oddly embarrassed by this, and yet you don't want it to end. Once your skin is freed of its cloth prison, her sharp eyes narrow and study your hellacious mop of hair. "Kara," she asks softly, curiously fingering the cleanest parts of your hair. "How attached are you to this length?"

You shake your head, unable to speak at first. After clearing your throat, you try to shrug nonchalantly. "I was already thinking of cutting it. It's too much work to keep it up like this."

She smiles wanly and nods, turning to find a pair of scissors. You stand patiently while she hacks off the worst of it, knowing she'll fix it up when you're happily clean. With each clump of hair dropping to the floor, you feel your soul growing lighter, losing the burden that's been weighing you down for so long. You don't even flinch when she moves you over the drain and begins to pour buckets of water over you to remove the worst of the dirt and loose hair.

When she guides you into the water, you wonder briefly if you might just float away. Closing your eyes, you relax back into the heated water and consider dozing off. It's not until you feel the water displacing as she slips in next to you that you realize she's stripped naked as well. This is certainly a first, and you're not quite sure what you're supposed to be feeling right now. The rough washcloth seems to glide across your skin, leaving suds and goose bumps in its wake, and she almost violently scrubs the remains of your pilgrimage from your skin. As if she's paying penance for punishing you with that task. You want to tell her you did it willingly, and would do it again if she only asked, but your voice evades you again and you let her do what she needs to.

Shifting, she moves to straddle your lap in the close quarters of the bath, fingers digging into your scalp as she works the shampoo into a thick lather. Feeling your nipples stiffen under the surface of the water, you slit your eyes open to watch her for just a moment. Her face is a mask of determination trying to overpower her desire, and you can just make out the erect nipples capping the ends of her whole-again, healthy breasts.

Without thought, you lean forward and capture one between your lips, smiling at her sudden gasp of desire. She doesn't move to stop you, fingers flexing against your scalp in time with the pulse you can feel under the surface of her skin, merely tips her head back to arch her chest toward you. Taking the act of permission, your lips and teeth worry the taut nubbin of flesh until she's panting and gasping your name. Wrapping one arm around her waist for balance, you tug at her other nipple until she cries out softly. Moving lower, you're not surprised when your fingers feel the thick heat of arousal clinging to her pussy. Not one to stand on ceremony, you slip two fingers between her clutching lips, groaning yourself at the sublime sensation of being surrounded by her. No more than a few seconds pass before your fingers are plunging deeply into her, driving her closer and closer to that moment in time when she loses control.

"Kara, please," she whispers, leaning forward to let her long hair fan around your face.

You nod and continue to thrust, adding a third finger and shifting to angle toward that little ridged area that drives her--

"Gods, yes!" she cries out, spine snapping rigid for a moment, muscles clenching painfully tightly around your fingers. And yet you don't stop. Your teeth find her nipple again, worrying it mercilessly as your thumb teases her clit, fingers still fucking her for all you're worth. You don't even hesitate to force a second orgasm out of her, and a third before she weakly pushes your face away.

Feeling the cocky grin spread across your face, you glance up at her and find yourself pinned by the intense lust and affection in her eyes. It’s only at this point, as she's leaning in to plunder your mouth with a heady kiss, that you realize you've got your Roslin back. The woman you'd gladly die for if she asked you to. Pulling back for a lungful of oxygen, she ducks your head under the water to rinse out the shampoo. The movement only gives you the impetus to pull her close and tease her clit with your tongue for a few seconds until your lungs crave air again.

She can live her outwardly safe little life with Maya and the baby, but as you surface and meet her gaze, you know full well that the woman you worship for so many reasons is coming back. And you'll do anything to keep her here this time.


End file.
